Two nights and two days after the fight with the buhatar they walked, both men dragging a travois with what supplies they had to have, as Tagrun could barely function with the broken ribs. Galen had found the mule, still living, but severely wounded, and given it the cut of mercy. Then they had spent several hands of the stars across the sky making the carrying device, loading it with what the hunter could not carry, and other items, as well as bandaging their wounds up.
When they at last moved on, they gathered up one last item, the broken off spike of Galen's bladed mace. The assassin held it with a bleak face, not speaking for a few fingers of the sky's rotation, then gently stowed the hand long curved piece in a pouch. Tagrun wanted to ask what was wrong, but something in his uncle's face kept the half-breed from doing so. Soon, it was into the ash filled prairies, and the remains of the many creatures killed by the spell started wildfire. Some beasts the hunter sorrowed over. But a few were the half rotted corpses of the pod of buhatari, which still tried to move, skulls filled with that same glowing of purple and black flames as the rocks and corpses of the dwarves on the Aqi.
Their pace was slow, using cloth from some goods Galen had meant to trade for information or food to cover their faces, as the choking clouds of ash kicked up in the still northerly wind. Each step was a danger, with numerous hot spots, burnign stubs of branches, or hardened cactus needles in the ground threatening to make one lame. The glow of the fire ahead of them gave them more light than the moons, and by day the wide spread of the fire became evident to both men of the disaster unleashed by Galen's spell. Both men were very aware of the horseman on the ridge above them.
The Kenrai clan disdained mounts, preferring the old ways. The true clansman, Tagrun's folk felt, walked into all things, trusting to only his or her own legs, not those of other beings. This came from the fact that the lands of the Eagle clan were the ones most haunted by the predators that sought out horses and other mounts. It was not worth the effort to the small group that was left of the Kenrai to keep mounts and protect them as well as the small encampments of the clan.
As they moved down to the valley, the fire lit the sky at night, vying with the moons, and its smoke clouds turned the sun from a bright white to orange. Great billowing clouds of the smoke rose up, the prairie still dry after a long spring with few rains. But with the third night's fall, clouds of another kind appeared on the southern and western horizons, as the spring storms at last came. That third night, the rains made the ashen plains impassable, turning the burnt area into a sea of mud, with pockets of grass still left by the vagaries of the wind and flame.
Tagrun's ribs were at that ugly stage where they only popped and ground when he moved too fast, or overextended himself. Sitting turned into a nightmare, as it changed the pressures on that cage of bone inside him. Just shifting his weight made things move around inside him in ways that he was not enjoying. At least they had the shelter of a tent to stay relatively dry within. The air was so filled with the rains and fogs that rose from the still hot earth it was falling upon. Steam still rose, even from the unburned grasses they camped on, as the residual heat only slowly fading. This left the land a place of mists and shadows as the sun sank down behind the clouds and mountains that were much closer to the Aqi this far south.
Galen had built a small fire for warmth, but the chill in the rains was slowly winning against the heat of the wildfire and the small stone circled flames. The winds were not the strong ones of the summer storms, but still not anything either man wanted to be moving out in.
All around them were the rotting remains of the buhatari pod, the smell of their corpses a mix of the decay and flames that had ended their existence. Tagrun looked out from time to time, wary of the carrion beasts coming to feast and turning to fresher meat, as he was certain what lay on the surface was not palatable to even the most jaded vulture's taste. Up on the ridge, the light of another fire gleamed, off the sides of what had grown from one to several tents now. He was not sure if the clan had gathered up there after the worst of the storms passed or just a warband upset over the conflagration Galen had caused.
They took turns sleeping, neither getting a deep sleep, feeling eyes they could not see, but knew were upon them. Tagrun twice was certain someone was near them, scouting in to see if they were keeping watch on his times awake. The younger man did not speak of them, but made a simple drawing of an eye and then motioned to the area he was sure the scouts were using to watch them from. The elf merely nodded, and stepped on the eye, scuffing it as he stood up to walk around their tent outside, acting like he was tightening the ropes that secured it. As the winds earlier had loosened them a bit, it was believable.
When the elf came back inside, and took up the seat at the front of the tent, his nephew was gone. The hunter had moved out silently, using the motion Galen had been making in the tent to allow him to exit unnoticed. Galen did his best not to expose the fact that the younger man had left, talking softly, as if telling him that the tent was secure again. He set more wood upon the fire, to ruin the vision of any who would look at the flames, if they were foolish enough, and keep any focus on him as the one moving.
Out in the ashes, the hunter crawled slowly on his belly, moving into a nearby draw, then scrambling up that narrow stream bed quietly, working through the rocks and stumps to reach the ridgeline. Once there, he moved just below that crest on the far side from the camp he and his uncle had made. The mists and fogs worked for him, as down the slope they were thicker, but the light of the greater moon made any closer to the crest stand out against the sky, as they blocked the great constant glows in the sky of the Wheel's blue and the spread wings of the Flame Crane.
Tagrun moved slow, like the cat he was named for, walking the distance a step at a time, the soft soles of his moccasins letting him feel his way to avoid dislodging stones or breaking anything to make a noise in the night to silence the insects or alert someone above him. He counted the watchers as he moved, using the method his mother had taught him so long ago. The fingers of his left hand extended with each watcher, the thumb opening as the other four closed to reset the count as he passed five, and the right hand having a single finger extended as he noted the tenth spy on the ridgeline. In the end, his right hand had a thumb and two fingers opened, his right one finger still. Seventeen as his mother counted, three hands and two in the speech of the clans.
He had not seen the lean man who had watched them during the buhatar fight. Nor found the horses these ones had ridden here upon. Southerly breezes kept his smell, and that of the buhatar he had fought, from drifting ahead of him, as Tagrun pressed on. So far five hands across the night sky the stars had marched since he had left his uncle. With each step, he knew the chances of being noticed increased, but he had to know if these indeed were the Otters or some other clan. On rare occasions, the young hunter knew that some clans with less honor would imitate the trappings of other clans, to stir up war or break up alliances they feared.
The fog thickened to a point Tagrun worried about making it back to his camp, as the first hints of light touched the sky in the east. Then he nearly spooked the horses, finding the stand of trees left free from the burn, where the watchers had tied them. And the man who had watched them waiting, patiently, staring at him.
"Kah-von, Tagrun, You are good, until you flinched, I did not know you were there." The words drifted on the air, moving softly as the strands of fog. It was a voice the hunter knew and trusted.
"Kah-von, Arklo. How has hunting been?" Tagrun kept his own words as soft as those given to him, moving slowly towards the man.
"Poor. The snows were too deep, the cold too bitter, and those beasts you burned from the grasses were spoiling what game was left." The hunter shifted, leaning on his spear. "The dead should not walk, tusk-cat. Who stirred this abomination up from the lands over the hills?"
Tagrun squatted down beside a bush, realizing the older hunter was testing his students on the ridge to see if they could figure out he had gotten past them. A smile creased his face for a moment. The Otters were great hunters, known as ones that may make a game of the hunt or its components, but only to teach the next generation the skills they would need. They kept that playful nature, giving them a reputation as fools and children to the other clans. Yet they were the largest clans save that of the Gafchar, the buffalo of the lands closer to the sea.
"No, the dead should not walk, and the one who cast magic to start the fire says that not all would have died. There will be ones who slept deeper in the ground that will survive." Tagrun kept an eye on the ridge, trying not to chuckle as the ones on that height suddenly heard from the close in scouts that only one man was at the fire still.
"Good job with that. Magic is not to be cast, but the way the fire spread tells me the totems wanted those beast removed. Buhatar that die and stay dead are bad enough, to have them still walk when dead was disturbing." The older hunter took out his whetstone to sharpen his spear blade. The screech of stone on metal carried up to the ridge well, and the fogs suddenly lifted as the wind increased with the coming of the sun. The closest watcher was a mere spear throw away, and hung his head in shame at how close Tagurn had made it undetected. He gave a long undulating cry to alert the others, then turned to walk down.
"My son, Arzintho. He will talk your ears off, tuskcat, trying to learn how you got by him." Arklo chuckled. "After I tease him a bit. Who is the elf with you?"
The insertion of the probing question in the conversation did not rattle Tagrun, who knew that Arklo was a blood relative of his grandfather's. "Galen Longwind." The terse answer dropped into the air like a stone as the boy arrived.
Arzintho was not yet fully grown, and moved with the awkward gait that said he had grown too fast of late, as all children do at some point in becoming an adult. "Forgive me father, I did not think to check the fog."
Arklo laughed. "I did check the fog and he got into thrust range on me, boy." He smiled softly, "Learn from this one. He is like his name, a cat of the grass, moving like a hunter should. Study how he moves, and see the tuskcat for what he is. A hunter, like you may become someday."
Arklo suddenly spoke to Tagrun. "Galen, you said?"
Tagrun knew this would be a sore subject, the Otter clan did not like the elf at all, as they felt they had something to hide from him. Something even on this journey, the younger hunter had not spoken of to his uncle. "Yes, and he is the brother of my mother, or so my family tells me."
There was a long silence that followed, one filled with the sounds of the rising mosquitoes coming back for one last attack before settling down into the grasses for the day. The world seemed at peace, save for the occasional snort or pawing of the horses, the hissing of the wind and the grass and branches making their own songs.
"Well. That explains much. You need to speak with him about fires, but this time we can forget the mistake. Galen's fire destroyed things that needed ending." The older hunter smiled in the twilight. "You will both talk to the elders, I fear you have more bad news to give us. Gather in the elf, and tell Galen to be on his best behavior." With that the man turned to the horses, calling over his shoulder, "Camp is at the three forks island. Chanti will be glad to see you, as will most of us, even with the ill wind you blow in on."
Tagrun merely grunted his assent and began his own trip back to gather up his uncle, laughing as he passed the youngsters and two very skilled warriors of the band he had snuck past. The older men laughed with him, those his age and younger seemed resentful, until they saw who had done it. Then they laughed as well, knowing him from the many times the clans met and traded.
Back at the camp, Tagrun found Galen looking puzzled by the sudden laughter and noise from folk he knew to be very somber outside their encampments. The young half-elf smiled at him, and told the tale of the sneaking up, as they packed up. Galen knew the Otters, it seemed, and enjoyed knowing how skilled his nephew truly was in the grass.
The trek to the place the Otters had gathered took the whole day, but as they moved along, Galen came to realize why his sister's chosen people were so frugal in their belongings. He stubbornly drug the travois behind him, refusing to give his nephew the satisfaction of tossing the goods aside, but realizing now that they would have to lighten the load to catch their foe. His mind was occupied by those thoughts so he missed the look on Tagrun's face. One of grave concern.
Their prey had doubled back many times to set traps. Was he endangering the Otter clan with this stop? Only the days to come would tell him that. Days in which his normal joy amid these folk, and with one in particular, would be dimmed by the shadow of this monster of a man.
They came to the camp, where Arklo and the elders awaited them. And another, a young elven woman, with the green tinged, coppery hair of the woodland clans. She was a stunning beauty, whose eyes found Tagrun's face, and lit up in joy. Galen smiled, knowing the tale of the elves slain by the ogres of the plains raiding the trade route decades before, leaving only a babe to be raised by this clan of wild men of the prairies. By the time her kinfolk had found out she lived, she was so a part of the clan they chose to leave her among them. Many of the woodland folk traveled the route now, trading with this clan over the others, all to check on the girl, as she grew into a woman.
A woman who had snared the heart of a young clansman, he could tell, as Tagrun met her gaze. That part of the tale had yet to spread, it seemed. His nephew followed the ways of the grass, greeting the elders and Arklo formally first, then acknowledging the woman he obviously loved. But rather than kneel while taking her hand, the young man showed the practicality they had both been raised in, turning to the eldest of the tribe.
"We must speak, a death mage has entered the grass, as you may know. We seek him to drive him off." Tagrun's voice was soft, so as not to carry beyond the ones gathered.
"We have heard. Come, join us at the fire, where we will speak of matters for all to hear as we eat." With that, they were welcomed to the tribe. No great celebration that Galen had feared, just the solemn acceptance that bad news was walking with them.
With the sinking of the sun, they gathered around the great fire a wild auroch had roasted over most of the day, and took their meal with the elders and others of the tribe, talking of the dangers that had come to the grasslands, what had already gone on, both here in the south with the corpses that still hunted, and the events in the north. The folk were subdued by the end of the talk, worries showing on the faces of all.
Then the elders asked them to take a short walk, as they discussed things for their clan. Galen was quickly grabbed by Arklo, who talked of the magics they could face. The elder hunter had left the grasslands several times over his life, giving him the experience with the outside world, and the very real dangers of magics his folk had never known of.
"Trap spells, death magic, and fires in the grass. Galen you have come to
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